Just Maybe Forse Ciao

A plastic heart would just mildly beat would be silent and not noisy. A plastic heart would not mistake intimacy with love or intimacy with sex or sex with love. Intimacy as the deepest sense of us, the 'most inside' part of us would not need to mix with the 'most inside' part of him in a plastic heart. A plastic heart would just pump blood and take me from one day to the other checking that all my organs work properly. It wouldn't want to send pictures or songs it wouldn't want to hold hands and definitely it wouldn't need to talk to him or discover, once again, his eyes. Far from the noise of love a plastic heart would understand when he says he does not feel the same anymore. It would just keep on pumping blood. A plastic heart would not fear to see him go once and for all or dread the end of something that never began. A plastic heart would bring a silent love not a noisy mess of feelings without name. A silent...

I tried. To move at different rhythms. I tried to take a picture of myself  naked  from the inside out for you to feel unique. But every unique gesture towards you Turns out to be insignficant.  I was good once,  In our good times now I am just misunderstood. Don't pretend you don't know me Just because you do not see me. Don't pretend you don't love me Just because you cannot say it. And yet This is what losing last hopes and faith feels like. I cannot turn potential into reality. When there is such resistance.  I need to grow up. Grown-ups do not wait for a train at a closed station Just because they see the railways. I tried.  To believe I was not intruding. To believe I was connecting. This time,  I did not want to cry at Christmas.  If ever you need someone,  My love, That is clearly not me. Whatever you want from me Is not the same as whatever I want from you. Whatever you want You do not want me. Anna. Me. I never meant to...

The law of diminishing returns. If I invest more while other factors are held constant, the output will eventually decrease. I stay still. I can't avoid increasing my inputs for the fear of breaking something. The greatest bastard, that you are. The only one who never lets me go. The only one I can't forget. You never let go.  You wear your glasses -  Oh you look still so beautiful -  But you never run the risk to break them. Break something, please.  Just break something, make some noise, alter this equilibrium where everything is held the same. Don't be afraid of discovering that things might break. Surprise me. Break something  and then connect the pieces once again as never before. Letting go is not the same than pushing someone away.  Because silences become stones and stones becomes walls. And I cannot fight against walls, you wouldn't hear me.   - Can we play hide and seek?  - Yes, and ...

I keep on throwing stones at the lake, to get the reaction I want, to see a wave finally, movement, in the still - too still - water.  A movement I provoked, not the wind or the rain.  The reaction I long for is late, constantly late, but I keep throwing stones at the water.  If I keep throwing those stone, at the very least, I know I am feeding into the ground underwater, raising the sole.  If I keep throwing stones at the still water even when there is no reaction as I want it, but a mere 'pling' of reception, I know I am depositing at the bottom.  And that deposit sooner or later will come to the surface.  It is always very difficult to keep throwing stones when you have no idea about how many stones you need to throw and how many times you have to do it.  Good thing is, the field around me does not seem to run out of stones. 

She was a romantic woman. And she was a volcano. She kept erupting her truths her uncomfortable fairytale dreams until she felt emptied up for a little bit, at least. She was as passionate and purifying as fire she is as red and primitive as blood. He was a romantic man. And he was an iceberg. He appeared cold and hard his passions and desires well hidden underneath the ice until he could, to protect them from the outside. He was as pure and tenacious as water He is as white and primordial as the snow. Her lava was often too hot, burning His ice was often too cold, freezing. And yet, when they met they could merge without annulling each other. She was a romantic woman He was a romantic man. Her lava was the result of her belief in magic and fairytale love, she couldn't control being 'too much'. His ice was the result of his fears of inadequacy to beliefs of magic and fairytale love, he couldn't help but freezing out. ...

In criminal law the test for conviction is beyond reasonable doubt. 95% certainty of guilt is required.  If guilt is certain to the jury or judge at 80-70-60% is not enough to convict, so culpability drops to 0% and the defendand walks free.  It's either 95%+or nothing.  In love, similarly, certain people need to be sure beyond reasonable doubts. Or sometimes without any reasonable doubts either.  They commit only with 95%+ certainty that it's love they feel.  Problem is, when it is not 95%+ certainty, but only 80-70-60%, what happens to that surplus of love that is not enough but still is there? We make judgement all the time, about how likely it is that a love is going to work into a relationship, above other potential loves - in the past, in the present or in the future - and sometimes we only gamble "beyond reasonable doubts", when it is virtually certain for us that it will.  And we lose and we waste all the love and all the feelings and emotions that ...

"I had been only a mediocre caretaker of most of the things left in my hands, even my talent."  Under my skin  Be as vast as the ocean But remember that even oceans have shores.  Should we stop  Or move? Together? And what about that journey In the South Us And all the rest of it Caught up in our own routines For a life that is work and Work that struggles to be life There is green in those eyes There is gold in my laughters  The present sounds easy And the past smells like my sea. That sea, of the journey. And talks of guilty pleasures And dreams of a future That promises more And makes us eternal Like teenagers planning the summer. We like. We love. Each other.  We can't say. We can't love. Each other.  We push. We read. Each other.  We can't wait. We can't see. Each other.  "I had been only a mediocre caretaker of most of the things left in my hands, even my talent."  (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

"La città aveva mille sguardi, io sognavo montagne verdi"  I don't know what it says, the letter I never get to write while I write all the other letters.  In what particular ways are you crazy. In what particular ways am I crazy. And what is wrong with that? Myself, in an erotic picture product of a night that night when he was the midnight and I was busy shutting down the lights - too many, too bright - looking for romance and passion in us, between us.  When it's all an unfinished work in progress with all the little things that we create and destroy. Working, making coffee, avoiding small talk, digging stuff up, Charging up a music box, loving that music, smiling. Being smart and being awake. Making mistakes and asking questions. Learning about each other and forgiving each other quickly. Watching each other swim in our own tears or joy. Running from the heart, running towards the heart.  Dreaming the willingness to dr...

"My favourite faded fantasy". I had no idea what that was. Until someone hit a nerve. I had no idea what was it. What was that made certain experiences emotionally and physically so much. With him and after him. What was hidden so deep inside me unspoken for years, what was it that unlocked it unleashed it, the emotion, a love so powerful and yet unexpectedly behind the veils of my daily life. For someone who leaves her country wanting to be someone else someone new no legacies no strings attached no cultural expectations forced on her skin. I swear I still remember thinking, feeling that there was no way back while falling in love with London with England and knowing that was going to be enough. Everyone that comes along might touch you differently inside and outside there is always a centimetre of your skin or your heart that has not been touched before or not touched that way. When he came along and brought with him his own best...

Trust him Trust yourself,  when he says that you are on the same page. Love might not exist  but you and him still do. Everywhere. And always. You saw finally a crack in that wall he showed you for the past years, and you know that  - for light to get in -  a crack is always needed.  Trust him you know it is worth it this time When he says that different paragraphs on the same page still can make a lot of sense together.  When you saw way underneath all those layers he had built on himself for years and you know that seeing so deep does not help you or him. Let it go, ok? Just trust him and let it go this time. His words might not always mean what you want  But they have meaning nevertheless  and maybe you'd be surprised if you only listen,  if you weren't afraid to really listen.  Don't burden your soul or his any longer. Breathe and let your mind and heart go light for once,...

There are things that never started  that still struggle to end.  Like him.  And his favourite spot in Prague.  Two years ago and now. And he lost his black glasses, his attitude, his youth.  All traded for an attempt to grow up That does not make him look happier after all. And he lost her. As she lost him.  Does he have a problem with that at all? " I am here for you ", he says " But I don't know you ", she says. It is such a waste of time, such a waste of time.  She is just a waste of time for him. He is such a waste of time for her.  It is too late to enjoy the city of toys together.  The memories are tainted, The tears might come too easy.  The words are empty. And she cannot stand it The way he looks at her She cannot read him, His look,  So harsh and yet so greedy.  And so sweet, still. There never is any love there There is surprise, admiration, amusement. Never love, not even a little bit of romance. Love might not be ...

If our souls had a colour in the night you and I would definitely be red. Red for each other. While everyone else would be a  pale shade of white. Or maybe yellow or blue. Your smell. Your perfume. And the green in your eyes. The black jacket you wear. My dress.  My tears. And the shivers down my spine. The kisses I give to others cause I cannot give them to you.  As if I had you to kiss I would not want to kiss others. When I see We belong together. The music. That music.  I feel yours as you know mine. It's a complex sweet disaster. The things we smile at. The things we don't know how to make sense of.  "We are made for each other", I say, "you know what I mean?" You do know what I mean. Can't you see, that does not change anything? It means the world, but it does not change the world. The embraces, getting truer at every touch of skin. The blood.  My blood, where you got lost. Your blood.  I am soaking right into it. To see you.  You are so muc...

3 days out of 365 days  someone has your face And he is not you. As you are dead  There was no funeral Or I was not invited But I do remember your fatal fall And the desperation And the mourning. Now my bereavement is over And I keep my memories Warm and distant. And now those 3 days our of 365  Someone has your face Someone I do not know But that smells like you.  Someone who is still beautiful as you were But looks more tired And older Not happier than you were Not so distant as you used to be More polite Less impulsive More controlled  Than you. This someone wants to look more adult Than you ever tried to be. He drinks less, he sleeps more, he takes decisions, he keeps his word. But he listens the same music you used to listen to. But during these 3 days out of 365 days I still long for intimacy I remember you. I do really remember you And that someone that looks like you Does not remember me instead.  I wonder,  If he can ever like me  Like yo...

I cannot talk to you freely. I fear that my heart will jump up to my lips. And I will not be able to stop from kissing you. The last time I saw you, I forgot to ask you to dance. So I ask you now, do you want to dance with me? I have the perfect song for that you know? All I could ask you instead was to go somewhere you and I, just you and I. You said yes, and you lied. Once again you betrayed me. And our natural attraction.  I cannot talk to you freely. As when I want to blood boils in my veins and I would just want to lie there with you silent. And words die in my throat suffocating me. I cannot talk to you freely cause I cannot get over you. Why do you still exist? Why do you exist out there when I want you here in my life in my bed in those days and nights stolen to time and life? I cannot talk to you freely cause you and I were meant to send each other pictures to visit villages to learn new words together to just be togeth...

All around is darkness And you cannot see me. There is something out here That doesn't let you see me That darkness That chews me And spits me out again Shifted. The man you are Your usual self Is now a more beautiful self Breathes better Lives better Loves more. And the woman I am  My usual self Is as usual Not enough. Like it was years ago. Certain things  You were never meant to  Understand.  Of me. You can't, can you? Certain things I cannot get over. I see you now  As I saw you then. Would you even care Beyond all those layers? The man you are That is not what I want It is now a memory A fantasy The many parts of you. It's not for me As the woman. I am Is not for you.  I said I loved you I can still love you. I said I will forget I will forget I love(d) The man you are.

Saudade is all that remains when everything else dies. In the soul of Lisbon. Blurred images of a love I never had and I am never going to have. Just as you asked I have forgotten you. See? Out of rational choices, I did what you asked. If I could not have you with that skin-to skin contact that you had me taste then I don't want you at all. And you said it, not me, to trust that skin-to-skin rhythm to the end and when I did you consumed it with indecisions tainted it with contradictions. I will see you at distance I will recognize you from another life that rope bracelet you wear all the time the glasses above your head at night, the light blue shirt, the sad eyes. I will see you at distance and face the bouncing emotions that accompany you every time. And I will ignore them. And ignore you. And pretend you are not the one that succeeded where many have failed in leading me without efforts. You will find another Anna another girl wit...

Cara Nonna,   Today I miss you. I think of you always complaining that I woke up too late, even if it was only  9 am  and it was summer. You always cooking, always busy doing something in the house. I miss the summer, the kitchen garden, the delicious fritters, those things only you knew how to cook. I miss coming into your bedroom in the morning, the only time of the day when I was allowed in, while you were making the bed and the room was full of light. Soon after that the blinders went down and the room was off-limits. It was the master bedroom after all. I miss the way I was meant to be respectful of closed spaces and properties of you and Nonno. I miss the way you showed me things of the past, like treasures. When a picture was really just one picture, one magic instant of the past, not one in a million. You touched those pictures of mum and the aunties of those brothers and sisters you hadn't seen in years and you would have not seen again...and even of us, as ...

There are no more dreams to steal. But the ones I had kept for longer than I can remember  got stolen. I am building my own disgraceful lie to prevent others to trap me. And yet, he doesn't get it. He believes I wanted this to happen, he believes I can easily breathe and he should know that I am scared of failing Of falling  of feeling  just like a fraud. I wonder if he ever dreamed about me I wonder if he ever thought he saw me in the street I wonder if he ever wished to surrender. I wonder if he ever wished to love me. And what is the wish to love  Someone you cannot love if not an aggression to yourself anyway. There was the possibility of an island a piece of land surrounded by the sea never flat, with hills and caves with corners to discover and  the gods of the sea to adulate.  He doesn't know who I am  anymore he should know my need to connect was not just selfish. He doesn't listen.  He believes I am strong and I have a brilliant future. H...

I’ll be misunderstood.  Come and find me, talk to me, shout at me. Force me to see. Only don’t leave me in this nothingville where I cannot find you.   There will be silence Which I will be breaking With inconsistent requests of attention From unexpected, unaware and certainly inappropriate sources Not to talk to you.   Louder and louder The more I feel I am unheard.   They cannot feed my ego And my agoraphobia in this nothingville Where I cannot find you.   I wish it was only that I miss  New York lately And I miss that spark I felt for a too short while There in the frozen December snow   Where there was him who made me feel beautiful In his true, yet inconsistent, ephemeral physical love.   I just wanted him to stay So I did not have to face memories of you, In  New York , Where you did not belong Where everything felt easy and without this heavy baggage I carry around.     In and out of consciousness I now push for a change and ...

There is a lot out of the window and very little inside this room. Great men and little characters have always been my nemesis.  I love a great man. He has a little character. He trades the love of today for one in the past and none in the future.  The noise of my kisses to the air. Il rumore dei baci a vuoto. It is my heart more than just my body to be lustful with him, it is a promise of what he was.  It doesn't leave. He doesn't leave. And yet he is not here, he is not here, in any of my days.  And I wish I was strong enough to make him leave.  All I have left is a neverending sequence of perfectly worded messages that still do not make sense to him. And it's not about what I deserve, it's about what I want. And for some whatever reason I don't want what I deserve and I don't deserve what I want.  And please just go, just go away, I wish I could just say that and mean it. But I am afraid he will, cause after all if I give up on him, he certainly has alre...

There is a core in everything I do that tries to stay true and loves the way I love the person I love. London feels hostile the sun doesn't seem to be warm enough here. And I need new space to enrich the core I have neglected for a while, busy with all those stupid feelings that make my life just a busy crossroad with no real meaning. The sweet hello I need to say again in a night of passion and clandestine emotions I had buried for a while. The sad goodbye every sweet hello always carries. Because, when you have a core, the core demands to be listened to and there is no way to shut it up. And I imagine an African sunset - my fantasy still works and creates - with a sun finally warm enough, and another me, freer, rested, adventurous, awake. And him, again, by my side because that is what he wants and he doesn't know why he wants that again. And it doesn't matter that he doesn't know conscience is overrated and tore u...

Once upon a time in Amsterdam I was in love I used to sing sitting on the back of his bike And I used to think he was the most splendid creature. Years ago in this airport I broke my own heart by asking him to behave like a fairytale prince charming while all he did was to disappoint himself before me. And this country this city I used to love where the streets had no names for me, where the snow did not stop the bikes from cycling around. This city I felt under my skin with the truest love a woman can feel filling with passion every dream I had about me and him. But true love is not always real and I lost Amsterdam once I lost him here in Amsterdam Schipol. Once upon a time in Amsterdam another me had no idea of the pain  that was about to come not for the love that ended but for the disappointment of someone so dear to me that indeed is nothing like I thought. Once upon a time in Amsterdam another me believed in love, her love,  and I did not know that  everything was g...